Armada

Robert was astonished. A knighthood. With such a social rank his captaincy would never be questioned or challenged, and on merit alone he would truly be able to make his way in the world. He felt a pang of conscience. He would be dubbed Sir Robert Varian, not Sir Robert Young. He searched his feelings at the thought of how his real name would be negated but felt no remorse. What was Young to him but his father’s name, the name of a traitor? Henceforth men would know him as Sir Robert Varian, a captain knighted by the Lord High Admiral, Sir Charles Howard in the midst of battle. Robert felt his chest swell with the force of his pride.

Howard turned to address the assembled crew. ‘Step forward the honoured few – Lord Thomas Howard, Lord Sheffield, Roger Townsend, George Beeston, Martin Frobisher, John Hawkins, and Robert Varian.’

Those called stepped out from the ranks and stood before the admiral. Robert moved slowly, as if in a trance, and took his place at the end of the file. One by one the men came forward and knelt before Howard. Robert was the last to advance. He knelt down before the admiral and bowed his head.

‘By the power granted to me by rank,’ Howard intoned, speaking aloud the words made sacred by tradition and ceremony. ‘I dub thee, in the name of the Crown, knight of the realm.’

Robert felt the strike of Howard’s clenched fist on each of his shoulders in turn. He raised his head and met the admiral’s gaze.

‘Arise, Sir Robert Varian, and take your place amongst your fellow knights.’

Robert stood and stepped back, coming shoulder to shoulder with the chosen few. The crew erupted in cheers. Trumpets blared from atop the fo’c’sle. Robert looked about slowly, unable to fully absorb the incredible moment. His eyes fell on Howard. The Lord High Admiral of England was staring back at him. He nodded respectfully and Robert smiled, looking up as the acclaim swept over him.

Evardo’s pulse quickened in anticipation as he gazed upon the broad sweep of the coastline west of Calais. It was late afternoon and the Armada was being borne along a mile off land by a moderate westerly, a breeze that had sprung up at dawn. The previous day had been long and frustrating, with both fleets becalmed. Evardo drank in the exhilarating feeling as mile after mile fell into their wake.

The Santa Clara was sailing amidst the rearguard of the Armada, a place of relative safety granted to Evardo’s ship while the crew finished the last of her running repairs. Damage to the main mast had been the most serious consequence of the Santa Clara’s trial over forty-eight hours before. The mast had taken a side swipe from a round shot, at least a 24 pounder, a glancing blow that had gouged out a four-inch deep furrow in the forward section. The master carpenter had repaired the damage as best he could and the crew had covered the bindings with pitch to hide the weakness from the enemy. It was far from satisfactory, and Mendez had already warned that the mast would not hold if the ship was forced to run before a storm. Evardo had acknowledged the captain’s counsel and as the wind freshened during the day he had found himself glancing at the mast many times.

At the thought he looked to the main once more and saw de Córdoba come up to the quarterdeck. The captain raised his eyebrows quizzically, seeking permission to approach and Evardo nodded genially.

‘A fair wind, Comandante.’

‘A fair wind indeed, Capitán.’

De Córdoba looked beyond Evardo over his shoulder. ‘That is the port of Calais off our larboard bow?’

‘It is, and beyond on the horizon is Gravelines.’

‘Then his grace, the Duke of Medina Sidonia, has done it,’ de Córdoba said triumphantly. ‘He has brought the Armada through the Channel.’

Evardo smiled. Medina Sidonia had indeed all but fulfilled the primary goal of the campaign. The Armada was nearing the Flemish coast.

‘If Parma’s army is in Dunkirk and is ready to sail we could effect a rendezvous on the morrow,’ de Córdoba added.

If, Evardo thought with a tinge of concern. As far as he knew not one of Medina Sidonia’s dispatch ships had returned to inform the fleet and without firm contact there was no way of knowing which port Parma had chosen. It was possible he wasn’t at Dunkirk at all. Maybe he was in Nieuwpoort, or Sluis, or even Antwerp.

The boom of a single cannon echoed across the fleet, interrupting Evardo’s thoughts. It was a signal from the San Martín. Evardo waited impatiently for whatever command had been issued to disseminate across the fleet.

‘Orders from the flagship,’ the masthead lookout shouted down after several minutes. ‘All ships to drop anchor in Calais roads.’

‘Here?’ de Córdoba asked. He turned to Evardo. ‘Why is the duke ordering the fleet to anchor?’